ALFGAR THE DANE OR THE SECOND CHRONICLE OFAESCENDUNE

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Title: Alfgar the Dane or the Second Chronicle of Aescendune

Author: A. D. Crake

Release Date: August 27, 2004 [EBook #13305]

Language: English

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ALFGAR THE DANE OR THE SECOND CHRONICLE OF AESCENDUNE:

A Tale of the Days of Edmund Ironside

by the Rev. A. D. Crake.

PREFACE.

CHAPTER I. THE DIARY OF FATHER CUTHBERT.

CHAPTER II. "ALFGAR, SON OF ANLAF."

CHAPTER III. THE NIGHT OF ST. BRICE.

CHAPTER IV. THE DANES IN WESSEX.

CHAPTER V. THE TRACKS IN THE FOREST.

CHAPTER VI. THROUGH SUFFERING TO GLORY.

CHAPTER VII. FATHER AND SON.

CHAPTER VIII. FATHER CUTHBERT'S DIARY.

CHAPTER IX. THE CAMP OF THE DANES.

CHAPTER X. CARISBROOKE IN THE ELEVENTH CENTURY.

CHAPTER XI. THE GLEEMAN.

CHAPTER XII. THE MONASTERY OF ABINGDON.

CHAPTER XIII. THE CITY OF DORCHESTER.

CHAPTER XIV. THE SON AND THE FAVOURITE.

CHAPTER XV. FATHER CUTHBERT'S DIARY AT CLIFFTON.

CHAPTER XVI. THE FEAST OF CHRISTMAS.

CHAPTER XVII. FOR HEARTH AND HOME.

CHAPTER XVIII. FATHER CUTHBERT'S DIARY.

CHAPTER XIX. THE ROYAL DEATHBED.

CHAPTER XX. THE MIDNIGHT FLIGHT.

CHAPTER XXI. EDMUND AND CANUTE.

CHAPTER XXII. SMOOTHER THAN OIL.

CHAPTER XXIII. WHO HATH DONE THIS DEED?

CHAPTER XXIV. THE ORDEAL.

CHAPTER XXV. FATHER CUTHBERT'S DIARY.

PREFACE.

The tale now presented to the indulgence of the public is the second of a series of tales, each complete in itself, which, as stated in the preface to
the first of the series, have been told to the senior boys of a large school, in order to secure their interest in historical characters, and to illustrate
great epochs in human affairs by the aid of fiction.

Yet the Author has distinctly felt that fiction must always, in such cases, be subordinate to truth, and that it is only legitimately used as a vehicle of
instruction when it fills up the gaps in the outline, without contradicting them in any respect, or interfering with their due order and sequence.

Therefore he has attempted in every instance to consult such original authorities as lay within his reach, and has done his best to present an honest
picture of the times.

The period selected on the present occasion is full of the deepest interest. The English and the Danish invaders of their soil were struggling
desperately for the possession of England--a struggle aggravated by religious bitterness, and by the sanguinary nature of the Danish creed.

The reign of Ethelred the Unready, from his accession, after the murder of his innocent brother, until the scene depicted in the nineteenth chapter of
the tale, was a tragedy ever deepening. Its details will seem dark enough as read herein, but how utterly dark they were can only be appreciated
by those who study the contemporary annals. Many facts therein given have been rejected by the Author as too harrowing in their nature; and he
has preferred to render the contemplation of woe and suffering less painful, by a display of those virtues of patience, resignation, and brave
submission to the Divine will, which affliction never fails to bring out in the fold of Christ, whose promise stands ever fast, that the strength of His
people shall be equal to their needs.

With the death of the unhappy king, and the accession of his brave but unfortunate son, the whole character of the history changes. Englishmen are
henceforth at least a match for their oppressors, and the result of the long contest is the conversion of their foes to Christianity, their king setting the
example, and the union of the two races--not the submission of one to the other. The Danish element had been received into the English nation to
join in moulding the future national character--to add its own special virtues to the typical Englishman of the future.

One more rude shock had yet to be sustained before the alloy of foreign blood was complete--the Norman Conquest. This is the subject of the
Third Story of Aescendune, which has yet to be written.

One character in the tale has always puzzled historians--a character, so far as the author knows, absolutely without redeeming trait--Edric Streorn.
It is well said that no man is utterly bad, and perhaps he possessed domestic virtues which were thought unworthy of the attention of the
chroniclers; but as they picture him--now prompting Ethelred to deeds of treachery against the Danes, now joining those Danes themselves, and
surpassing them in cruelty--now seeking pretended reconciliation, only to betray his foe more surely, and in all this aided and supported by the
weak, unprincipled king--as thus pictured there is scarcely a blacker character in history.

But more incomprehensible than the existence of so bad a man in such a dark age is the renewed confidence ever accorded him, when, after more
than once betraying the armies of his country into the hands of their foes, and fighting openly in the hostile cause, he is again forgiven, nay, received
into favour, and sent once more to command the men he has already deceived, until he repeats the experiment, and when it fails is again admitted
into confidence.

To some extent the Author has endeavoured to find possible solutions of the mystery, but mystery it will remain until the day when all secrets are
known.

The death of this unhappy man is taken, in all its main details, from a comparison of the chroniclers, as are also all the chief historical events herein
noted.

An objection has been raised to the modern English in which the Author has made his characters speak. He can only say in reply that the Anglo-

Saxon in which they really expressed themselves would be unintelligible to all but the few who have made the study of our ancient tongue their
pursuit--far more unintelligible to those of ordinary education than Latin or French. Therefore it would be mere affectation to copy the later
orthography of Chaucer, or to interlard one's sentences with obsolete words. The only course seems to be a fair translation of the vernacular of the
period of the tale into our own everyday English. The Author anticipated this objection in the preface to his earlier volume. He repeats his answer
for those who may not have seen the former book. A similar rule has guided him in the orthography of proper names; he has used the customary
Latinised forms.

In his descriptions of Dorchester and Abingdon he has been aided by the kind information received from the present vicar of the magnificent
Abbey Church, still existing in the former ancient town, and by the extensive information contained in the Chronicle of the Abbey of Abingdon,
edited by the Rev. Joseph Stevenson, M.A. He has also to express his obligations to his friend Mr. Charles Walker, editor of the "Liturgy of the
Church of Sarum," for valuable assistance in monastic lore.

The moral aim of the tale has been to depict the mental difficulties which our heathen forefathers had severally to encounter ere they could embrace
Christianity--difficulties chiefly arising from the inconsistencies of Christians--and to set forth the example of one who, having found the "pearl of
great price," sold all he had and bought it, forsaking all that could appeal to the imagination of a warlike youth--"choosing rather to suffer affliction
with the people of God, than to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season."

Yet his Christianity, like that of all other characters in the tale, is that of their age, not of ours, and men will differ as to its comparative merits. "Unto
whomsoever much is given, of him shall much be required."

The author dedicates this tale to his brother, engaged, like himself, in that most responsible task, the education of youth, in memory of those happy
days when they pored together in rapturous delight over old legend or romantic lore in their father's home at that very Clifton (now Clifton
Hampden) familiar to hearers or readers of the tale as the home of Herstan, and the scene of the heroic defence of the English dwelling against the
Danes. It will be a great reward for the Author's toil should this little volume similarly gladden many firesides during the approaching Christmas, and
perhaps cause some to thank God for the contrast between the Christmas of 1007 and that of 1874.

A.D.C.

All Saints' School, Bloxham.

Advent, 1874.

CHAPTER I. THE DIARY OF FATHER CUTHBERT.

All Saints' Day, 1002.

Inasmuch as I, Cuthbert, by the long-suffering of the Divine goodness, am prior of the Benedictine house of St. Wilfrid at Aescendune, it seems in
some sort my duty, following the example of many worthy brethren, to write some account of the origin and history of the priory over which it has
pleased God to make me overseer, and to note, as occasion serves from time to time, such passing events as seem worthy of remembrance; which
record, deposited in the archives of the house, may preserve our memory when our bodies are but dust, and other brethren fill our places in the
choir. Perhaps each generation thinks the events which happen in its own day more remarkable than any which have preceded, and that its own
period is the crisis of the fate of Church or State. Yet surely no records of the past, extant, tell us of such dark threatening clouds as hang over the
realm of England at this time; when the thousandth year since our blessed Lord's nativity having passed, we seem to be entering on those awful
plagues which the Apocalypse tells us must precede the consummation of all things.

But we who trust in the Lord have a strong tower wherein to hide, and we know of a land where there is no darkness or shadow of death;
therefore we will not fear though the earth be moved, and the hills be carried into the midst of the sea.

This house of St. Wilfrid was founded by Offa, Thane of Aescendune, in the year of the Lord 938, and completed by his son and successor Ella,
who was treacherously murdered by his nephew Ragnar, and lies buried within these sacred walls. The first prior was Father Cuthbert, my
godfather, after whom I was named. He was appointed by Dunstan, just then on the point of leaving England to escape the rage of the wicked and
unhappy Edwy, and continued to exercise the authority until the year 975, the year in which our lamented king, Edgar the Magnanimous, departed
to his heavenly rest, with whose decease peace and prosperity seemed likewise to depart.

Father Godric succeeded him, under whose paternal rule we enjoyed peace for ten years. Truly the memory of the just is blessed. He died in 985,
and then was I chosen by the votes of the chapter to be their prior, and my election was confirmed by the holy Dunstan, who himself admitted me
to mine office.

And truly the lines have fallen unto me in pleasant places, dark although--as I have said--the times are. The priory lies on the banks of the glorious
Avon, where the forests come nearly down to its banks. Above us rises a noble hill, crowned with the oak and the beech, beneath whose shade
many a deer and boar repose, and their flesh, when brought thither to gladden our festivals, is indeed toothsome and savoury.

Our buildings are chiefly of wood, although the foundations are of stone. The great hall is floored and lined with oak, while the chapel--the Priory
Church the people call it--excels for limning and gilding, as well as for the beauty of its tapestry, any church in this part of Mercia. Our richest altar
cloth is made of the purple robe which King Edgar wore at his consecration, and which he sent to the thane Alfred of Aescendune for the Priory
Church as a token of the respect and favour he bore him. And also he gave a veil of gold embroidery which representeth the destruction of Troy. It
is hung upon great days over the dais at the high table of the hall.

The monastery is well endowed with lands by the liberality of its first founder, as appears in the deeds preserved in our great muniment chest. We
have ten hides of woodland, wherein none may cut wood save for our use in the winter; five hides of arable land, and the same extent of pasturage
for cattle. Now for the care of the culture thereof we have a hundred serfs attached to the glebe, who, we trust, do not find us unkind lords.

There are twenty brethren who have taken the final vows according to the rule of St. Benedict, and ten novices, besides six lay brethren, and other
our chief servitors. We keep the monastic hours, duly rising at daybreak to sing our lauds, and lying down after compline, with the peace and
blessing of Him who alone maketh us dwell in safety.

Our daily work is not light. We preach on Sundays and festivals in the priory church. We visit the sick. We instruct the youth in the elements of
Christian doctrine. We superintend the labours of those who till the soil. We copy the sacred writings. In short, we have a great deal to do, and I
fear do it very imperfectly sometimes.

I will add a few words only about myself. I am the third son of Alfred {i}, thane of Aescendune, and his wife the Lady Alftrude of Rollrich. Elfric,
my eldest brother, died young. Elfwyn is now thane, and I, the third boy, was given to the Church, for which I had ever felt a vocation, perhaps
from my love to my godfather. We only had one sister, Bertha, and she has married the Thane Herstan of Clifton, near Dorchester, the seat of our
good bishop Aelfhelm, and the shrine of holy Birinus.

My father and mother both sleep the sleep of the just. They lived to see their children happy and prosperous, and then departed amidst the
lamentations of all who had known and loved them. Taken from the evil to come, we cannot mourn them, nor would we call them back, although
we sorely missed their loved forms. They were full of years, yet age had not dimmed their faculties. My father died in the year 998, my mother the
following year. They rest by the side of their ancestors in the priory church.

My brother Elfwyn married Hilda, the daughter of Ceolfric, a Thane of Wessex, in the year 985. He has two children--Bertric, a fine lad of twelve,
and as good as he is manly; and Ethelgiva, a merry girl of ten. His household is well-ordered and happy-- nurtured in the admonition of the Lord.

For myself I have had many offers of promotion in the brotherhood of St. Benedict, but have refused them. I was once offered the high office of
abbot in one of our great Benedictine houses, but I wished to be near my own people and my father's house, and here I trust I shall stay till I seek
a continuing city, whose builder and maker is God.

And now a little about the state of the country round us. In this neighbourhood we have as yet been preserved from the evils of war, but for many
years past the Danes, those evil men, have renewed their inroads, as they used to make them before the great King Alfred pacified the country.
They began again in the year 980, and, with but slight intermission, have continued year by year.

The awful prophecy which God forced from the lips of Dunstan {ii}, at the coronation of our most unhappy king, has been too sadly fulfilled. Ah
me! I fear the curse of the saints is upon him. When the holy bishop departed this life, I was one of the few who stood round his bed, and as he
foretold of the evil to come, he bade us all bear our portion manfully, for the time, he said, would be short in which to endure, and the eternal
crown secure.

Many of those to whom he spoke have since died the martyr's or the patriot's death, but as yet no evil has reached us at Aescendune, although
many parts of Wessex, nay, all the sea coast and the banks of the great rivers have been wasted with fire and sword, and the money which has
been given the barbarians has been worse than wasted, for they only come for more.

Our armies seem led by traitors; our councils, sad to say, by fools. Nothing prospers, and thoughtless people say the saints are asleep. Every day
we say the petition in our Litany, "That it would please Thee to abate the cruelty of our pagan enemies, and to turn their hearts; we beseech Thee
to hear us, good Lord," and we must wait His time, and pray for strength to submit to His will.

Around the priory live the serfs, the theows, and ceorls of the estate, each in his own little cottage, save the domestics, who live at the Hall, which
is only half-a-mile distant.

On Sundays and Saints' days they all assemble in our minster church. It was full this day at the high mass, and I preached them a homily upon the
Saints, great part of which I took from a sermon I once heard the holy Dunstan preach. And he showed us how saints did not live idle lives on this
earth, but always went about, like their Lord and Master, doing good, and that through much tribulation they entered the eternal kingdom, which
also bids fair to be our lot nowadays, although we be all miserable sinners, and not saints.

Ah! how I thought of the dear ones we have lost when the Gospel was read at mass, about the great multitude which no man could number, and I
almost seemed as if I could see father, mother, and Elfric there. I would not wish them back; yet my heart is very lonely sometimes. I wonder
whether they remember now that it is All Saints' Day, and that we are thinking of them. Yes, I am sure they must do so.

There have been few troubles from the Danes, close at hand; so few that they seem trivial in comparison with those our countrymen suffer
elsewhere. Still we have many of the pagans living as settlers in our neighbourhood, whose presence is tolerated for fear of the reprisals which
might follow any acts of hostility against them. Kill one Dane, the people say, and a hundred come to his funeral. Many of these settlers have
acquired their lands peaceably, but others by the strong arms of their ancestors in periods of ancient strife; and these have been allowed to keep
their possessions for generations, so that if they did not retain their heathen customs we might forget they were not Englishmen.

One of these lives near us. His name is Anlaf. Some say he boasts of being a descendant of that Anlaf who once ravaged England, and was
defeated at Brunanburgh. He married an English girl, whose heart, they say, he broke by his cruelty. They had one child, Alfgar by name.

The mother died a Christian. Taking my life in my hands, I penetrated their fortalice, and administered the last sacrament to her; but they threatened

my life for entering their domains, and, perhaps, had I been but a simple priest, and not also, small boast as it is, the son of a powerful English
thane, whom they feared to offend, I had died in doing my duty. When the poor girl was dying she committed the boy as well as she could to my
care, begging me to see that he was baptized; but the father has prevented me from carrying out her wishes, asserting that he would sooner slay the
lad.

But it seems as if the boy retained some traces of his mother's faith; over and over again I have seen him hiding in some remote corner of the
church during service time, but he has always shrunk away when any of the brethren attempted to speak to him.

I am sure he wishes to be a Christian.

I may, perhaps, find a chance of speaking to him, and a few words may reach his heart. He knows my brother's family, and has once or twice
joined them in expeditions in the woods, and even entered their gates. His must be a lonely life at home; there are no other children, but from time
to time hoary warriors, upon whose souls lies, I fear, the guilt of much innocent blood, find a home there.

November 2d.--

This morning we said the office and mass for the dead, as usual on All Souls' Day. My brother Elfwyn and his children were, of course, present.
That boy, Bertric, with all his boyish spirit and brightness, is very pious. It was a sight which I thought might gladden their guardian angels to see
him and his sister kneeling with clasped hands at their uncle Elfric's tomb, and when service was over, they made me tell them the old old story
about the first Elfric, the brother of my father, and how my father rescued him when the old castle was burnt {iii}.

When I had told them the story, I saw my brother was anxious to say a few words to me.

"Cuthbert," he said, "have you seen the young Dane, Alfgar, lately?"

"Not very long since," I replied; "he was at mass yesterday."

"Because I believe the lad longs to be a Christian, but does not dare speak to any one."

"He fears his stern father."

"Yes, Anlaf might slay him if he was to be baptized; yet baptized I am sure he will be, sooner or later."

"Does the boy love his father, I wonder?" said I, musingly.

"Doubtless; it would be unnatural did he not; but perhaps he loves the memory of his mother yet more. We both knew her, Cuthbert."

"Yes, when she was a bright-hearted merry village maiden. Poor Kyneswith!"

"For her sake, then, let us both try to do something for the boy."

"With all my heart. I will seek an opportunity of speaking to him, perhaps he may unburden his mind."

"Have you seen Edric the sheriff?" asked Elfwyn.

"Not lately. Has he been here?"

"He has, and there was something in connection with his visit which troubled me. He had been telling me for a long time about the cruelties and
insolence of the Danes, when he added, in a marked manner, that they might go too far, for hundreds of their countrymen, like Anlaf here, were
living unprotected amongst us."

"What could he mean?"

"I understood him to hint that we might revenge ourselves upon them, and replied that whatever their countrymen might be guilty of, our neighbours
would, of course, always be safe amongst Christians."

"What did he reply?"

"He changed the subject."

Elfwyn said no more, but bade me goodbye and returned to the castle; still I saw that he was a little discomposed by the sheriff's words. I don't
like that sheriff; he is a cruel and a crafty man; but I daresay his words were only the expression of a passing thought.

CHAPTER II. "ALFGAR, SON OF ANLAF."

SUNDAY, November 6th.--

Today I noticed Alfgar, the son of Anlaf, at the high mass, and felt a little discomposed at the relaxation of discipline, which, contrary to the canons
of the church, permits the unbaptized, as well as persons who ought rightly to be deemed excommunicate, or at least penitents, to be present at the
holy mysteries.

But it is not this poor boy's fault that he is not a Christian, for I have seen him, and learned for a certainty the real state of his mind.

The way in which it came about was this. I marked that after service he entered the woods, as if he shunned the society of his fellow worshippers,
and there I followed him, coming upon him at last, as if by accident, in a chestnut glade, the leaves of which strewed the ground--emblem of our
fading mortality.

He started as he saw me, and at first looked as if he were inclined to fly my presence, but I gently addressed him.

"Dominus vobiscum, my son," I said. "I am pleased to see you sometimes at the minster church."

"I did not know I was noticed amongst so many," he replied.

"You mean, my boy, that you would sooner your presence were not observed. I can guess your reason too well."

He looked so sad, that I was sorry I had spoken precipitately, and a deep red blush suffused his dark countenance. He has a most attractive face-
-so thoughtful, yet so manly; his mother's gentle lineaments seem to have tempered the somewhat fierce and haughty bearing of his sire, as they
meet in the countenance of their child.

My sympathy became so deep that I could not restrain myself and spoke out:

"My boy, will you not confide your troubles to me, for your dear mother's sake? Do you not remember how she commended you to my care? And
never have I forgotten to pray daily that her God may be your God also."

At the mention of his mother the tears filled his eyes. We were sitting together on the trunk of a fallen tree, and he covered his face with his hands,
but I could see that the tears forced their way between the fingers, and that he was sobbing violently. He is only as yet a mere boy, and such
emotion is excusable.

At last he looked up.

"I long to be a Christian like her," he said; "over and over again she taught me, during her last days on earth, of the Christ she loved, and who, she
said, was ever near her. I have heard all about the faith she loved, yet I am an outcast from it. What can I do?--my father will not let me be
baptized, and I dare not oppose his will; yet I sometimes think I ought to chance all, and to die, if death should be the penalty."

"Die? You do not surely think he would slay you?"

"I know he would."

"In that case, my child, your duty seems plain: your Lord calls you to give Him your love, your obedience, and to seek refuge in the fold of His
church."

"Ought I to leave my father?"

I felt very much puzzled indeed what to say. I could have no doubt as to the lad's duty; but then his father was his natural guardian, and in all things,
save the plain duty of professing Christ, had a claim to his obedience.

"I think," I said at last, "my Alfgar, that when he knew you were determined to be a Christian he would oppose you no longer; that is, if you were
once baptized he would tolerate a Christian son as he once did a Christian wife."

"He broke her heart."

"At all events I think that you should delay no longer, but should seek instruction and baptism, which we will afford you; and then, unless you really
feel life is in danger, you should return to him and try to bear your lot; it may not be so hard as you think."

"I am not afraid of death; but he is my father, and from his hands it would be hard."

"He hates Christianity grievously then?"

"He says it is the religion of cowards and hypocrites; that it forms a plea for cowardice when men dare not be men, and is thrown aside fast enough
when they have their foes in their power."

Alas! I could but feel how much reason the ill lives of Christians had given him to form this opinion, and of the curse pronounced upon those who
shall put a stumbling block in their brother's way. The conversation of the Sheriff, Edric Streorn, rose up in my mind as an apt illustration of Anlaf's
words.

"My boy," I said, "there is nothing perfect on earth. In the visible church the evil is mingled with the good. Yet the church is the fold of the Good
Shepherd, and there is salvation therein for all who love and serve their Lord, and strive humbly to follow His example, and those of His blessed
Saints."

"May I think over all you have said, and meet you next Sunday? You will be here, will you not?"

And he looked imploringly in my face. Poor boy! my heart bled for him.

So we parted, and he went home.

Friday, November 11th.--

I feel thoroughly uneasy and anxious about the sheriff's proceedings. He has been about the neighbourhood today, and seems to have been talking
secretly with all the black sheep of my flock; thank God, I do not think there are many. What they can be going to do, or what plot they are
hatching, I cannot discover, only I fear that it is some design for vengeance upon the Danes--some dark treachery plotted against those in our
midst; and, if such is the case, I can but feel uneasy for poor Alfgar. I wish the lad would leave his home, if but for a short time, until the signs are
less threatening; but he would not forsake his father in danger, and I ought hardly to wish it.

St. Brice's Day, Sunday, November 13th--

This has been a harassing and eventful day. Early in the morning, before the high mass, whereat the neighbourhood is generally present, I received
a missive from the sheriff, bidding me, in the name of the King, to exhort my people to remain at home tonight, since danger is afoot, and there is
likely, he says, to be a rising on the part of the pagans who dwell amongst us. Why, they are but one in five in this neighbourhood; hardly that. I
determined to give the message in my own way, for I could not keep silent, lest, through fault of mine, any of my sheep should perish. So I
preached upon the Saint of the day, who was pre-eminently a man of peace, and I took occasion to tell my people that there were many hurtful
men about, who, like their master, Satan, were seeking whom they might devour, and that, like that master, they chose the night for their misdeeds,
seeing they loved darkness rather than light. So I said I hoped every good Christian would keep at home, and go to bed early.

At this point I observed a sarcastic smile upon many faces, notably on those of the black sheep aforesaid, to whom the sheriff had spoken, and I
concluded that they were very likely to be the ministers of darkness themselves. So I spoke on the Christian duties of love and forgiveness, and
exhorted all present to take joyfully the chastisement of the Lord, even like holy Job; and that it would all tend to their eternal good, through Him
who, when He was reviled, reviled not again. And so with this exhortation to patience I closed my homily. I fear I spoke to many in vain.

I am sure they are bent on immediate mischief, and that this notice of the sheriff has much to do with it. He wants to keep good people at home to
have all the field to himself. I see him--the black bellwether.

After mass I mingled with the dispersing congregation. The weather was very gloomy--the faces of the congregation yet more so. All seemed to
apprehend coming evil. Instead of returning cheerfully home they stood together in groups, talking in low tones, as if they feared to speak their
thoughts aloud.

Most of them evidently were men of peace, but not all, as I have already hinted; and, as I drew near a group standing behind the great yew tree, I
heard one of these latter discoursing to his fellows.

"Heard you the prior's sermon?" said Siric, for that was the fellow, Siric of the Wold; "a fine homily he gave us on St. Brice --that man of peace."

"It was easy for him to be a man of peace," returned another; "he hadn't got Danes for his neighbours."

"Holy Job himself would have turned cutthroat if he had."

"Then they have been insulting, robbing, and murdering all over the country."

Just then I interrupted them, for I could no longer hear the blasphemy.

"How now, Siric," said I; "hast thou come to Aescendune to revile the saints?"

"Nay, Father," said he, with a mocking smile; "I was only rejoicing that they were not exposed to such trials as we. Job's Chaldeans were
gentlefolk in comparison with our Danes."

"Thou blasphemest; and what didst thou say of the blessed St. Brice?"

"Only that I wished he were living now to tame the cutthroats who live in our midst, and who murder and rob daily, just in mere sport, or to keep
their hands in."

"What new outrages have occurred?" I asked.

"A party of the heathen carried off the cattle from my farm down the water early this morning, and slew the herdsman."

"Dost thou know who the fellows were?"

"All too well; they were Anlaf's men."

I hardly knew what to answer, the outrage was so recent, and the excitement of the speaker so pardonable, as I could but feel.

Well, at this moment my brother Elfwyn came out of the church, where he had lingered to pray, as he generally does, at his brother's tomb, and,
noticing us, came and joined the group. He seemed much concerned when he heard the details.

"Siric," he said, with his usual kind way of speaking, "do not distress yourself unduly; you know I am rich in flocks and herds. I will make up the
loss of the cattle, my brother the prior will have a mass said for poor Guthred, and he shall have the last rites performed at our expense; it is all we
can do for him; the rest we must leave to the mercy of God."

"Nay, Thane," said Siric; "I thank you for your goodwill, but I may not stand thus indebted to any man. I will repay myself at the expense of the
robbers. Still you may remember Guthred at God's altar."

And he strode away.

My brother was now joined by his children Bertric and Ethelgiva, and his wife, the Lady Hilda. I saw that he was ill at ease, but we did not
mention the subject, which I am sure was uppermost in both our minds, lest we should alarm the gentle ones.

Just then I remembered that I had promised to meet Alfgar in the pine wood, and I hastened to the spot.

I found him seated again on the fallen tree. He rose at my approach, and saluted me with some emotion, as if some inward excitement made itself
visible in spite of his efforts to suppress it.

"My son," said I, "have you pondered my words of last Sunday?"

"I have, and I am come to put myself under your instruction. I will be guided by you in all things, and fulfil thus the dying wish of the only being who
ever loved me."

"But, my boy, there must be yet a higher, a holier motive."

"I trust it is not wanting, my father."

"Are you able to stay long today?"

"O yes, my father is keeping high festival; a number of his countrymen are visiting him and holding revel; this morning they drove in a number of
oxen, I know not whence, and slaughtered two on the spot, and they have broached several barrels of mead; they will keep the feast all day, and
before night my father will not be in a state to miss me; I always absent myself if I can on such occasions."

"Then you must come home with me, and share the noon meat, after which I can give you my time until evensong."

He made no objection, and we returned to the Priory together, where he took his noon meat in the guest chamber, and I devoted all the time
between the meal and nones to an examination of my catechumen.

I found that poor Kyneswith had impressed all the primary truths of our holy faith deeply upon his mind, although he wanted much building up, and
needed instruction in details; he seemed deeply impressed by the main facts of the life and teaching of our blessed Lord, particularly His message
of peace on earth, good will towards men, contrasting so forcibly with the faith of his own people.

The time passed rapidly away, and we went to the minster church at three, when nones and evensong were said together, for we could not keep
the people till the proper hour for the latter office, owing to the darkness of November.

When the holy office was over, I accompanied my brother part of the way home, for I wanted to communicate my suspicions, and to learn
whether he shared them.

It was a dark and gloomy eventide: the sun, which had only made its appearance at intervals during the day, was fast sinking behind a heavy bank
of clouds which filled the western horizon; and the wind, which was freshening to a gale, seemed to bear the storm onward in its track, while it tore
the few surviving leaves rudely from the trees, and whirled them in mazy windings.

"Elfwyn," said I, "what do you suppose was the true object of the sheriff in bidding folks keep indoors tonight?"

"I cannot divine, unless he has some deed of blood on hand which he wishes to have undisturbed, all to himself and his underlings."

"Siric spoke mysteriously."

"Yes; if there is aught going on amiss, he has a hand in it."

Here I communicated my fears respecting Alfgar, whom I had invited, with my brother's permission, to sup at the hall.

"Could you not keep the poor fellow with you all night? I fear his father is in some danger, as well he may be, acting as wickedly as he did this very
morn."

"I will try to persuade him to stay, he is along with Bertric and Ethelgiva; they are only a few steps behind. Cuthbert, I have ordered every one of
my theows and ceorls to be obedient to your warning if they wish to preserve their allegiance to Aescendune, or to escape chastisement, and I
think none of them are likely to be abroad tonight."

"Can you not find out what the sheriff has told them? I saw him speaking to one or two."

"I will try. You must be my guest tonight, or at least for a few hours."

"Nay, I must return to compline; I may be wanted tonight, and ought to be at my post," said I.

We arrived at the old home, dear familiar place! stronger and better built than most such houses, because, being burnt down in my father's younger
days, it had been rebuilt in a more substantial manner, and was capable of sustaining a formidable attack successfully.

We crossed the drawbridge, and entered the courtyard under the gateway; before us was the door of the great hall, merrily illumined by its blazing
fire.

There, then, was the supper table bountifully spread, and the theows and ceorls awaiting the arrival of their lord. We entered, Elfwyn and I, and
soon after Bertric, Ethelgiva, and Alfgar followed.

A loud horn was blown upon the battlements. Stragglers made their entrance good; the drawbridge was drawn up, the doors closed, and I blessed
the meat.

CHAPTER III. THE NIGHT OF ST. BRICE.

Monday, November 14th, 1002.--

I hardly know how to write the events of last night, my pen almost refuses to begin. I feel thoroughly sickened by the very remembrance of the
bloodshed and treachery which have disgraced Christian England, and which will assuredly bring down God's judgment upon us.

But I will do violence to myself, and will write all things accurately, in order it may serve to show that there were those amongst us who were not
consenting parties, who entered not into the counsels of those men of blood, whom may God "reward after their deeds, and according to the
wickedness of their own inventions."

Well, to begin. When supper was ended at the hall last night, my brother bade his wife and children seek their bower, and Alfgar went with them;
then he addressed his people with that confidence and affection he not only shows in his outward speech, but really feels in his heart.

"Are all the folk present within the gates?" he asked.

"We are all here, my lord," replied they; "none have been wanting in their duty."

"It is well; and now, my people, I ask you, whom I have ever trusted, and to whom I have tried to be a friend as well as a master, have you any of
you a suspicion what the sheriff is about tonight, and why he desired the prior to tell good Christians to keep within doors?"

There was a dead silence. At last one of the ceorls rose up, and spoke with some hesitation:

"I think, my lord, that they intend to avenge themselves upon the Dane folk."

"Did they say anything about it to you or any other of my people?"

"Yes; they tried to get two or three of us to join in the work, but when they found we would do nothing without your knowledge, they told us no
more."

"Then you do not know what is the exact work they have in hand?"

"No. But I heard something which made me think that plunder and massacre were both likely to be committed."

"Did you hear any particular names mentioned?"

"Yes. That of Anlaf."

"This explains Siric's insolence, Cuthbert."

"It does," I replied.

"But surely they cannot intend to do anything tonight. They would not choose Sunday for a deed of darkness. Men who have attended mass during
the day, surely would not so forget their God as to go through the country like cowardly wolves, pulling down the prey in company which they
dare not attack singly."

"I should hope the same; but then the looks and words of today," said I.

"Did they say what authority they had for their projected scheme?"

"They dared to say," replied the ceorl who had before spoken, "they had the sanction of the king."

There was again a painful silence. We groaned in the bitterness of our hearts--O Ethelred, son of Edgar, hast thou forgotten all truth and mercy?--
thou, the son of Edgar the Magnanimous?

Every impulse of our hearts led us to detest the cruel deed of treachery about to be consummated, but which we could not prevent.

At least there was one whom we could save from the general destruction, the young Alfgar, and we determined to detain him if possible by
persuasion, keeping the truth from him, but in any case to detain him at the hall during the night.

I could not remain at the hall myself, for, on such a night, it seemed necessary to be with my own people, and to be ready to seize any opportunity
of saving the effusion of blood, or of giving protection to any who might seek refuge under the shelter of our roof, where murder would be
sacrilege, a consideration of some importance where Christians, shame to say, were the murderers.

But before I went my brother and I sent to Alfgar that we might speak to him, and prevail upon him to stay with us the night.

"Alfgar," said Elfwyn, "the night is very stormy and blustering, and we wish you to remain with us, and share our hospitality till the morn. Your
father will not miss you?"

"I do not think he will; for after one of these debauches he generally sleeps far into the next day. But the domestic serfs may remark my absence."

"There is another reason, my boy, why we wish you to stay. Wild men who hate your father's race are abroad, and did you fall into their hands
while returning home it might fare hard with you."

"I can imagine that. I marked the looks they cast upon me in God's house, even there, this day. They cannot forgive me my Danish blood, although
my mother was one of themselves, and a Christian."

"They have suffered much, my lad; and suffering, as is often the case, has blunted their feelings. But you will stay with us, will you not?"

"I will stay; many thanks for your kindness."

After this I had nothing further to detain me at the castle, so I left for the priory.

It was a black dark night. The violence of the wind almost lifted me from my feet; not a star could be seen but occasionally a sharp hailstorm pelted
down. Glad was I, although the distance was not great, to see the lights of the priory, and to dry my chilled limbs and wet garments before the fire
in the common room while I told my brethren the tidings of the night, and the suspicions which we entertained.

When I had finished there was a dead pause, during which the howling blast without, as it dashed the hail against the casement, seemed a fitting
accompaniment to our sombre thoughts.

The compline bell rang.

This office is always full of heavenly comfort, but there seemed a special meaning tonight in one verse--"A thousand shall fall beside thee, and ten
thousand at thy right hand, but it shall not come nigh thee."

Yet the thousands were heavy on our hearts, and I meditated some means of carrying tidings of their danger to our pagan neighbours; but I knew
nothing of the details of the plot, only that there was a plot, and I knew that if I sent a brother, the Danes, in their hatred to monks, would probably
set their huge dogs at him before he could speak, and perhaps worry him to death. Neither could any other messenger approach their dwellings
safely at night.

I tried to hope, but against reason, that we had perhaps exaggerated the danger. Still, after the compline was over, we sat in deliberation a long
time in the hall. The novices and lay brothers, ignorant of the peril, had retired to rest; but we, who knew the portentous state of things around us,
could not have slept had we retired. Ever and anon we looked forth from doors and windows into the black darkness without; but although it was
near midnight, neither sight nor sound told of aught amiss, and we were beginning to yield to fatigue, when I ascended the tower in company with
Father Adhelm, to survey the scene for the last time. It was so windy that we could hardly stand upon the leaded roof, and although we gazed
around, nought met our eyes until we were on the point of returning.

"Listen!" said Father Adhelm, the subprior.

It was unnecessary. Borne upon the wind, a loud noise, as of men who shout for mastery, met our ears, followed or intermingled with cries for help
or mercy--so we fancied at least.

While we stood rooted by horror to the spot, a bright light arose, which rapidly increased, as a conflagration well might in such a wind, and soon
the whole horizon was illuminated. I knew but one homestead in that direction--the fortified house of Anlaf.

I thought of the poor boy, with thankfulness that we had restrained him from returning home. He is saved, at least, thought I, as a brand from the
burning.

The other brethren joined us, and after a short consultation, we determined to go to the scene in a body, to mitigate the rage of the people, and
save life where we could.

So, putting our cowls over our heads, we sallied forth into the black night--black and dark save where the light of the fire illumined the horizon, and
even cast a faint ray upon our own path. We were not used to journeys in such weather, and I am afraid we made very slow progress, but it was
not for want of good will. The fire grew brighter and brighter as we proceeded, and the shouts louder and louder. We knew that Anlaf had a party

of his countrymen, all of them obnoxious to the English, and could easily understand that they had collected themselves together for their own
destruction. Yet, when we looked around, we perceived by the blood-red reflection in the skies at other points, that the same ruthless task was
being carried out in many a distant spot, as well as close at hand.

Reaching the bank of the river, we directed our course along its banks until the dark forest closed in upon us, and rapid progress became difficult.
The trees were all rocking wildly in the wind, and here and there a severed branch fell down before us. Occasionally a gust of rain and hail
descended. The path was wet and slippery. Poor Father Adhelm groaned aloud. He had the podagra, (or gout), and ought not to have ventured
forth; but zeal would not let him rest.

"Verily our path is hedged about with thorns. It is hard to kick against the pricks," said the chamberlain.

"It is God's work," said I, "and we may not falter."

Yet I felt my own heart weak.

But for the red light, which shone even through the shade of the forest, we could not have pursued our path. But plainer and plainer the wind
brought the fierce shouts of the assailants to our ears, until, emerging from a dark belt of underwood, the whole horror of the scene burst upon us.

Before us, at the distance of a few hundred yards, defended by a mound and a ditch, rose the irregular and fortified dwelling of Anlaf. It was
wrapped in flames from top to basement, and even as we looked one of the towers gave way, and fell upon the hall beneath, with hideous din, in
headlong ruin.

Around the blazing pile stood some two or three hundred men, who completely encircled it, and who had doubtless prevented the escape of the
inmates. We were evidently too late; the passive attitude of the assailants showed that their bloody work was done.

We learned afterwards that the domestics, who were English serfs, had betrayed the place to the foe, while the Danish lords were revelling in the
great hall, and half drunk with wine. Surprised at the banquet, they fell an easy prey, and were slaughtered almost without resistance, after which
the house was plundered of everything worth carrying away, and then set on fire in every part. Further details we could not gather. All was over
when we arrived.

Full of indignation, I and my brethren advanced straight upon the group surrounding the sheriff, the crafty and cruel Edric Streorn, and in the name
of God denounced the cruelty and sin of which they had been guilty.

"Sir monk," was the reply, "are you traitor to your king that you thus league yourself with his deadly enemies? All that is done this night is done by
his order."

"God will avenge the deed," said I. "Ye have not fought like men, but crept on like serpents, and slain those who, trusting to the faith of Christians,
dwelt blindly in our midst. And now, what can we say? How can we hope to win our foes to God and Christ when we set at naught his precepts
and despise his example?"

"Sir monk, I have not time to listen to a homily; keep it for next Sunday, when I will try to attend. For the present--"

Here he was interrupted by a loud cry which arose near us.

"The wolf cub! the wolf cub! Slay him, and the work is complete."

The cry, "Slay him! slay him!" was taken up by a dozen voices, when I recognised Alfgar, who by some means had learned the danger of his
kinsfolk, and had come to share their fate.

"Save him, sheriff!" I cried; "save him! He is a Christian. His mother was English."

And I rushed forward myself, and saw that the poor lad had already been brought on his knees by more than one fell stroke.

I held up the crucifix, which hung at my girdle, on high; I threw my arm over his head, and abjured them under the name of Christ, and as they
feared the curse of the Church, to forbear. My brethren all aided me.

Sullenly they dropped their weapons, and the sheriff, coming forward, seconded me, although in a very contemptuous manner.

"Let him have the lad for his share of the night's work," he said.

And so God gave me the poor lad's life.

I had scarcely time to lay him on a sloping bank, where the light which shone so luridly from his burning home might fall upon him, when my brother
Elfwyn appeared on the scene with a score of his men.

He recognised us by our habits, and came and looked with me at the orphan as he lay on the bank. The boy had received no serious wound, but
was exhausted, as much I thought by the violence of his emotions as by his injuries. He was wet through; his clothes were torn with brambles, for
he had followed a straight path through six miles of tangled forest, from Aescendune.

They had unfortunately given him a bed in a chamber which looked towards his home: he had chanced to wake, had looked from the window,

seen the flames, and had started thither at once, swimming the moat when he could not cross the drawbridge--suspecting, doubtless, that he w...